She led him through the madding crowd to an alcove farther down the main hallway. After he took care of the bouncer, Lenore gave him a gentle push onto a black upholstered couch. A moment later, a woman wearing a black dominatrix outfit appeared bearing a tray with two glasses of champagne.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, charming her with his smile, “but I do not partake of strong spirits.”
The waitress stared at him. “It’s just champagne.”
He wagged a finger. “Nonetheless. Spirits destroyed the prophet, you know.”
The waitress and Lenore exchanged a look, then a shrug. The waitress disappeared.
Lenore reached behind herself and snapped open the bustier.
“Just a moment,” he said, holding out a hand. “You don’t need to do that. I want to talk.”
“No doubt.” She pushed his hand away and crawled onto his lap. Her bare breasts tickled his nose.
“I mean it!” he said, holding her back. “This is not-”
“Do you want me to lose my job?”
He relaxed. Even in a semiprivate room, the night must have a thousand eyes. “At least give a man a chance to breathe, would you?”
Lenore giggled. “Whatever.” Her hips began to sway.
“That’s not necessary, either.”
“Got to please the client.”
“Rest assured you will receive my highest encomiums.”
“Just relax,” she said, stroking the back of his neck. “We have to look as if we’re doing proper business. Even if we’re not. Believe me, girls who don’t follow the rules don’t last long here. And I’ve got a living to make.”
“Some living. A girl your age. Performing lap dances for strangers.”
“I don’t do lap dances,” she replied. She squeezed her thighs together, tightening her grip on his groin. “I do friction dances. It’s my specialty.”
He felt his internal temperature rising.
“Now what is it you wanted to talk about, you stud?” she growled in his ear, her hips grinding. She was eager and energetic but not that practiced. “Don’t I interest you even a little?”
“This isn’t-isn’t-”
“I know what to do.” Her hand found the zippered fly of his trousers.
He knocked her hand away. “Stop!” This was becoming too intense, too potentially awkward. “I want to go somewhere private.”
“We are somewhere private.”
“Someplace else. Away from here. Someplace we can do… more than this. You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know if I think that’s a good idea…”
“Please. Vouchsafe me this one cherished boon.”
She peered at him with a harsh eye.”If we leave the club, I’ll be out for the entire evening.”
“Yes.”
“You’d have to compensate me for the loss. Me and the management.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? We’re talking, like, three thousand dollars here.”
“I can do that.”
She gave him a long look. “I can’t pretend it wouldn’t be good for me. Bring my average up. You’re sure?” She hesitated only the merest of moments. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Most munificent of you.”
“Let me clock out and get my coat.” She stopped just before she left the room. “You’re sure? You’re serious about this?”
He nodded, smiling pleasantly. “Dead serious.”
I was pumped. For the first time since I got out of the hospital I was actually feeling somewhat good. I might not have the case solved, but I’d had some breakthroughs-the eyewitness, and now the decoded messages. My first steps in the psychologically right direction.
I decided to treat myself. Dinner at Elmer’s. Not a million-course buffet, not fancy French cuisine. No elaborate décor. No décor at all, really. Just good old American down-home comfort food, ribs and chicken-fried steak served straight, at a very affordable price. Once upon a time, Vegas was famous for places like this, for their ninety-nine-cent all-you-can-eat shrimp and buck-ninety-nine filet mignon. Nowadays, the big resorts hired Michelin-quality chefs to entice people to pay for the prestige of a ridiculously overpriced meal in a room with minor French impressionist paintings. Wolfgang Puck had four restaurants here, for Pete’s sake.
Elmer’s was much more to my liking. It had a lot of sentimental value. David and I used to come here on our anniversary. I hadn’t been back since he died, and hadn’t wanted to. But I had a sense now that I was ready.
I felt like Dolly Levi after a long absence. I smiled at the maître d’, a freckle-faced kid engaged in a losing battle with acne. “Party of one, please. I’d like a table-”
“By the window. With a view of the skyline.” He grinned. “Good to see you again, Miss Pulaski.”
I was floored. “What a memory you must have.”
“Not at all. You’re one of our most regular customers.”
“I-you mean, before-”
“On the seventh, every month. It’s your anniversary date, right?”
“Well, yes, it was, but-”
“And you never miss a month. Very admirable.”
My neck stiffened. “But-I haven’t been here for more than a year.”
He blinked, still smiling. “You were just in last month.”
“I-was?”
“And the month before that. And the month before that.”
“But-I don’t…”
“Shall I have the bartender bring you your favorite?” He winked. “Or maybe we should save time and have him bring you a pitcher.”
My stomach felt like lead.
“When you’re finished, let me know. I’ll call you a cab.” He winked again. “I think that’s best, don’t you?”
The elation I’d felt before deflated like a collapsed artery. The gnawing in my gut, the panicky, breathless, acidic sensation reasserted itself. “All of a sudden, I-I’m not feeling well. Maybe I’ll skip dinner.”
I stumbled out of the restaurant, knowing damn well that I was not skipping dinner. Only mutating its form.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they made their way to his truck. She had pulled a white embroidered wrap-a kimono, perhaps?-around herself to cover her virtual nudity.